


Alone

by Upupanyway



Series: Getting there [1]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Matt Murdock, Intense Masturbation, Jealousy, Low Self Esteem, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, didn't know how to tag a warning about self-loathing and sexual self-harm but here we have it, dub-con but not because again he's just jerkin it, fantasies, how do you tag this someone help, let's embarrass matt time again, like bdsm but he's jerkin it, sadboy hours, sexual violence towards oneself, straight foggy nelson, sweater-stealing, the devil speaks to him but it's actually his sexual repression and catholic guilt, the violence is him being mean to himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23372413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Upupanyway/pseuds/Upupanyway
Summary: Matt is feeling antsy and he's not supposed to be out Daredeviling.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Series: Getting there [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684483
Comments: 7
Kudos: 73





	Alone

There are hours in the city that are so loud and the night drags its filth along with its seconds. There are screams, and there are cries, and everything that can be imagined that is low and hurt. There are moments when Matt’s skin itches with it.

He can’t do anything about it, though, can he? Not with his body still on the mend, and not with his bones finally cricking with age and wear. And on top of that, he had promised Foggy, and as much as he knows he’s not the most reliable person when it comes to that sort of thing, he does want to try.

He doesn’t know what’s more of a sin: to lie or to break a promise, but he knows that one definitely feels more deliberate, and when faced with the wrath of both Foggy and God, he needs not to feel so guilty.

“Stay out of trouble,” he had told him, a happy lilt to his voice. They had been drinking, and Foggy had been feeling light at the end of his work week. He had done well, and the smell of perfume clung to his skin, dark and floral. He was seeing someone again, and he was all the happier for it.

Matt couldn’t remember her name. He had refused to memorise it. He knew of her from the pieces of her that she left on Foggy. Her perfume, her makeup, and the occasional whiff of garden dirt. She liked flowers, and she had hyacinths on her balcony. She had a cat, or perhaps several, and Matt would sometimes be left with a wad of fur when he extricates himself from Foggy’s side. He had heard her voice more than a few times while Foggy took calls from her, and it was sunny and deep. They had already taken to calling each other pet names.

And sometimes, when he really focussed, he could sense the warm spots on Foggy. Parts where his immune system would be kicking into overdrive to heal him from where her nails graze his back, or where her teeth would catch at his neck and stomach and thighs.

She makes him happy, and it’s always nice to see Foggy happy.

“And you?” the Devil taunts from the darkest parts of Matt’s mind. “Do you think you could ever make him happy?”

He shoos the thought away, because it’s been well-established that he has no say in the matter. For better or worse, Foggy had chosen him, over and over, and he wants to be an adult enough to respect that.

“But you don’t deserve it, do you?” the Devil whispers from the wind outside, from the stagnant apartment, all around him. The most suffocating sort of embrace. A prison.

And sure enough, try as he might, he doesn’t remember the last time Foggy had been exuberant in his presence. Perhaps it hasn’t been since they were in school together. Perhaps he had never been around a truly happy Foggy. They both seem likely. He knows his own limitations, and he knows he’s a burden. It’s time consuming and patience-draining, both his physical disability and his moody disposition. He knows Foggy deserves more.

“He has a life outside of you, you know. One where he fits in. One where he’s safe. One full of people who bring him joy,” his tormentor tells him, though he knows already. “Can you name them? Can you name even one of his friends?”

Matt tries. He had been to a party just last week, full of people hugging Foggy and shaking Matt’s hand.

He had been so graciously introduced as Foggy’s best friend, and there had been curious guests, rightly dubious that such a mismatched pair would know each other.

Matt hadn’t shaved in days. Foggy had smelled of expensive body lotion and subtle cologne.

“And what have you sacrificed for him, when you can’t even be bothered to take an interest in his life?”

Matt sighs. It’s going to be a long night.

“Stay out of trouble,” Foggy had said, so beautifully casually, as if there was nothing between them but warm affection. “I’ll see you around, Matt.” 

It was mere minutes ago, walking out from the pub. Matt had started in the direction of Foggy’s apartment, but Foggy didn’t budge.

He had swayed sheepishly. “Actually,” he’d said. “I was heading over to-” he had said her name. What had it been? “Alina’s.” Yes, that was it.

Fuck.

“I promised her we’d catch up on some shows. She’s dying to meet you, by the way. You’re welcome to tag along. She said it’s like she knows you already with how much I talk about you.”

Matt smiled through his clenched heart. “Maybe some other time. I’m getting pretty tired.”

Foggy hummed in agreement. “Yeah, okay. Actually tired, though, right? You’re not going to go vaulting off of buildings in thirty minutes?”

“Actually tired,” Matt said, and it was the honest truth. There was no way he would be going out on a healing femur and bruised lung, amongst all the cuts and scrapes he had been accruing otherwise. Even he knew it was inadvisable to go out like this. “It’s been a long week at work and I just need to lie down for a bit. Wouldn’t want to fall asleep in a stranger’s house, you know?”

“Oh,” Foggy said, sounding relieved. “Good. I’ll let Alina know. Next time for sure, though, okay? I know she’d love you,” he reassured, as if that was ever the problem.

“If you say so.”

“Anyway, have a good night, buddy,” Foggy had said finally, pulling Matt into a short and friendly hug. He smelled like hyacinths. “Stay out of trouble. I’ll see you around, Matt.”

“Have fun,” Matt called after him. “Say hi to Alina for me.” Foggy hailed a cab and stepped inside. She lived in the Bronx somewhere, where the air was slightly crisper. Foggy smelled crisper these days.

“Will do, buddy,” Foggy said from the window.

And then he was gone. And then Matt walked himself to his lonely and cold apartment, where Foggy used to visit several times a week, and he changed into silk pyjamas that Foggy had bought for him, and he sat himself on the couch where he and Foggy had spent cumulative years speaking to each other.

He had left a cardigan draped over one of the armrests from his last visit almost a month ago.

Shamefully, Matt brings it to his nose to sniff it, and then he rubs it on his face, trying to imagine what it might be like if they were sharing a lazy evening draped over each other. It’s sandalwood and lavender, Foggy’s combination since just after college.

“Creep,” the Devil says. Slowly, Matt moves to put the cardigan on, imagining that the warmth he feels comes directly from his friend. “You haven’t shared clothes since college, you thief.”

But it’s not stealing, not really. He has every intention of giving it back. He knows that there are boundaries that he shouldn’t be crossing as a friend; he should respect Foggy’s property, but surely this is innocent enough not to draw any ire, right?

He keeps the cardigan on as he walks into the bathroom to wash up for the night, and then to his bedroom.

He lays in his lush bed, full of silk sheets, and the thing that brings him the most comfort is a polyester blend sweater two sizes too big for him.

“Wretched. Filthy,” the voice says. “You want to smell like him, is that it? As if he would ever claim you.”

Matt strips from his pyjama shirt so that there’s no barrier when he puts the cardigan back on.

“He’s with his woman. Stop your mooning.”

He wraps the garment tighter around himself, bringing his sheets up to his chin. The night roars on outside, and he had promised to be responsible.

"They're probably fucking right now," the voice continues, though Matt really needs some rest. "She's a good lay. Can't you tell?"

Then, unbidden, the floodgates open and he can't stop himself from imagining it. He has no inkling of her physique, no accurate way to gather the size of her hands in Foggy's, or the curve of her mouth against his, but he still pictures it in friction and heavy heartbeats. Ragged breathing. Heavy petting. He knows she's good, at least enough to keep Foggy satisfied.

"You’re not permitted to think about whatever sex he might be having. That’s not something friends do. But you never really were one for boundaries, were you?"

Her hands become just hands, and then they become his hands, and suddenly, the heat he imagines is between the two of them, Matt and Foggy, and Matt shivers.

"You slut. He's in a committed relationship."

But he can't stop. He realizes that there's so much that he doesn't know about his best friend. The taste of his mouth, the feeling of his chest heaving against slick skin, the dimensions of his cock. It seems unfair for a moment, and then it just seems inevitable.

He tries not to, but his mind ventures in that direction often. He's tried the usual remedies. Meditation, masturbation, sex. Alcohol. Violence. The thoughts persist, though, and at a certain point, he's come to realize that it’s beyond curiosity or loneliness.

"I kinda love you," he imagines Foggy saying. He can imagine the press of their bodies together, the urgency of their buzzing chests as they collide into each other.

It's one of his worst addictions, one that'll take him straight to Hell when the rest of the melodrama that is his life plays out.

It's not that Foggy's homophobic or anything, but he has an impressive all-female record, even on his sloppiest drunken exploits, and he and Matt have never had a heart to heart about sexuality and gender despite all their years together. It's not that he goes out of his way to avoid sleeping with men, but the thought just never seems to occur to him. He's so straight that he doesn't even have the stray thought from time to time.

It's not for lack of trying on anyone's part, either. He's heard Foggy turn down casual offers from even the hottest men. Six-foot-five rugby players with devious voices, stout and hirsute men with well-kempt manes, even thin-wristed artsy types with high cheekbones and haphazard love affairs. If there's a type, Foggy's probably been propositioned.

"No, thanks," Foggy would say. "I don't really swing that way."

Matt had, on one notable occasion, been sat right next to Foggy when a man had been dared to kiss him at a party they were going to, and the ex-frat boy that he was, didn't hesitate to pull the guy on top of him on the couch for thirty whole seconds, slapping the guy's ass afterwards playfully. Foggy's heart rate never changed in urgent realization. No latent homosexual urges to be found. It would have been astonishing, if it didn't rip his heart out.

Matt sighs and brings a pillow to his face to groan into.

He starts again. None of the tenderness this time. He’s not permitted tenderness.

"Fuck, Matty," Foggy gasps in Matt's mind. He's on top of Foggy, who squirms and bucks up into him. He doesn't have to wonder if Foggy's ever been fucked like this.

There's so much skin between them, but all Matt wants to do is nestle inside, to live in Foggy's heart or deep in his veins.

He snakes a hand down his pants and palms himself through his boxers.

"Disgusting. He's your friend. He trusts you."

He knows. God, does he know. It's easier to ignore the voice when he's like this, though, hand thick and heavy on himself and Foggy's stuttering breath in his mind.

"Pathetic."

Warm lips on his, a hand clutching his. Foggy's legs wrapping around him. How it must feel to be sinking into him slowly, listening to Foggy whimper through it.

"You're doing so well," Matt would say. He always takes things so well. He's so  _ adaptable _ .

"Yeah?"

And then he's just holding his own dick thinking about his best friend. It's not lost on him that this isn't how people are supposed to be.

He wants to be a different sort of man. He does. He just isn't, and that's the tragedy of it all.

He spits on his hand and continues.

Foggy's under him now, cheek against his sheets and ass up in the air. His whole back is soft and accessible. His hands are at Foggy’s hips, plush and fleshy, as Foggy clutches at his pillows. Matt reaches over to stroke at Foggy's hair and they moan and thrust in tandem.

He knows his best friend isn't submissive. He wonders if he would be insulted at this version of himself, compliant and whimpering under Matt's weight.

He conjures a different scene, one where he's seated in Foggy. He can conjure other sensations, too. The feeling of a hand in his hair, lips brushing against his earlobe, the ghost of fingers at his side, roaming aimlessly.

His voice, low and rumbly, like he used to be upon waking in the mornings. He wonders if he's still like that, foggy and half-conscious like he had been in mornings all throughout college.

“Oh, Matt,” he says softly.

It feels too self indulgent to think of Foggy saying real words to him. He can't. Nothing longer than a few words. No compliments or encouragements. This is a rule.

The truth of the matter is that he doesn't know what Foggy is like, carnally speaking. He's heard brief noises decades ago before rushing towards the nearest library. He's heard rumours and ex-girlfriends gossiping. He wonders how much truth there is to it.

"He's attentive," one of them had said coyly.

"Surprisingly adventurous," said another.

"Stronger than you'd expect."

"Really good at head," a short fling had once bragged. She had been so candid. "Open to being tied up a little." And, most illuminating, "You can talk him into choking you a little. You'd look at him and think he's just a good boy, but he can be  _ mean _ if you ask for it."

Matt reaches a hand over his own throat, imagines his friend growling at him, slapping his face and chastising him. "Disgusting fuck," Foggy spits, and then his cheeks heat. He's hard, he's so hard, and he can't unhear those words in Foggy's voice. "Is this what you want, you sick bastard? Me hurting you?"

Maybe he wants to be dragged by the hair to his knees, forced to gag on Foggy's length. Tentatively, he slips two fingers in his mouth and sucks. He feels around at his tongue, the roof of his mouth, tries to discern if the inside of his mouth is welcoming enough.

"Not like you'll ever know," the Devil taunts in Foggy's voice. "Look at you, Matty. You're a disgrace."

He knows he doesn't deserve loving, but if it could be like this, if he’s not meant to enjoy it so much, maybe it could be okay.

He’ll give anything to be able to touch. He could take a little pain. He could take being degraded if it means he can imagine Foggy like this.

"What do you think you'll accomplish here?" There's Foggy's dick, stretching his lips and tickling back of his throat. He's three fingers in his own mouth now, squeezing his own neck, feeling the thrum of his own carotid arteries. His twitching dick lays forgotten on his stomach, his sheets kicked to the bottom of the bed. His legs splay out, searching for a comfortable position to be in. They land by his hips and he thrusts uselessly into the chill of his room.

"I'll hate you," Foggy says, and Matt scratches at his own chest, wanting it to hurt. "I'd hate you if I knew this is how you spend your time."

He breathes in deeply, shifting his own touch. He rubs at his balls with his spit-slicked hand, digging into a persistent bruise at his rib with his other, both to revel in the dull pain and because it alleviates the shame.

Their bodies are pressed up against each other, and Matt reaches lower, finding his own hole and wetting it with whatever’s left of his spit. He doesn’t deserve the comfort of proper lubricant, not now. He knows he’ll only be able to take one finger and it burns going in. He presses harder into the bruise before bringing his arm up to his face, pulling the sleeve up to his elbow with his teeth so he can bite at his own flesh until he feels the blood vessels throbbing to his racing pulse.

“Is this who you are? Broken and shameful?”

He imagines the curve of his friend’s stomach against his and familiar arms, sweaty and soft, around him. He moves his finger in small motions, rubbing against his prostate and moaning hitchingly. Tentatively, he wraps a hand around his length and squeezes, just enough to hurt a little. He’s been dripping, and his fingers wet as he pumps.

He almost remembers how happy Foggy had been to see just hours ago. How tightly he had held him, how safe Matt had felt. There’s a barrier in their interactions. It never goes under the clothes, and the touches are never hot or salacious.

He remembers the sensation of Foggy’s hair against his cheek, the soft graze of it almost touching his lips, and he remembers other words, more tender. “You’re ridiculous,” he had said, teasing and lovely. And then, at some other point in the night, they were leaning heavily on each other in their little booth, reminiscing about all the years they had known each other, tipsy and warm. “I’m glad I met you,” he had said softly. “I kinda love you, you know that?”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Matt had said. It was a safe response, and Foggy patted his hand for a glorious second before he caught sight of his watch. “Shit, is it that late already? I promised Alina I’d see her later.”

And Matt’s stomach had fallen. Remembering that sensation of holistic dismay sends him over the edge and he comes, ragged and sharp, gripping himself too tightly, crooked finger jagged inside himself.

He shoots and dribbles into the cardigan, already damp with his sweat and scent.

“Stay out of trouble,” Foggy had said, but Matt is already irredeemably damned.

“Fuck,” Matt says aloud, slowly removing his fingers from himself. He tucks himself back in carefully and heads to the shower, hoping the cold water washes him well.

**Author's Note:**

> [ matt following nyc health's recommendations for sex during a social distancing era. ](https://www1.nyc.gov/assets/doh/downloads/pdf/imm/covid-sex-guidance.pdf)


End file.
